


John, I'm Only Dancing

by convolutedConcussion



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dancing As A Turn On, John You Are A Derp, M/M, kink meme prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-17
Updated: 2011-10-17
Packaged: 2017-10-24 17:31:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convolutedConcussion/pseuds/convolutedConcussion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In response to a kink meme prompt requesting John being really turned on by Dave's dancing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	John, I'm Only Dancing

Your name is Dave Strider and you moonlight as a waiter on weekdays because, as it turns out, no matter how good of a DJ you are, DJs are a luxury easily dealt without during times of recession. The restaurant is empty except for yourself. The ear buds of your iPod are secured in your ear canals and the music blasting into your brain is practically ripping your eardrums apart. A new song starts and its beat is unrelentingly boring. The first few seconds are torture on your precious senses and you almost consider skipping this song because clearly you made one hell of a mistake by downloading this brain-muddling, eye-bulging, testicle-retracting bullshit album before it evolves into something damned near tolerable.

You finish setting the chairs upside down on the tables and grab the broom.

\---

It starts with his shoulders. It's just a gentle ticking along with the beat. His hips join in soon, and before long he's swaying as he sweeps. His long legs carry him with a strange grace that you always expected lay just under the surface of his stoic demeanor. His style is a heady mix of ballet and hip-hop, jazz and classical. His hips roll sensuously and his crisp uniform clings to him. He turns in profile and licks his lips before rolling his body and simultaneously twisting and--

"Sup, John?"

He leans casually on the broom and watches you open and close your mouth like a moron for an immeasurable amount of time. "U-um, hey, dude. Pretty, uh, sweet moves..." you stammer, jingling your keys next to your hip. "Radio in the car's out again, didn't feel like waiting for you out there." You can hear your own breathlessness and you feel your cheeks heat. He still doesn't answer you, just keeps staring at you from behind those shades. You're usually so good at being completely immune to his Coolkid Staredown but right now it's just making you feel itchy.

\---

You feel embarrassment claw its way up your esophagus but because emoting in general was the complete antithesis--oh, Gog, maybe you should stop talking to Rose--to your every coolkid belief, it stays neatly suppressed in your gut. You're not sure if even you have enough Cool in your reserves to convince John of the perfect irony of your having taken years of dance lessons. And really if you're honest with yourself--something you avoid at all costs--you didn't continue your dance classes all those years because it was ironic. That's an added bonus, but you genuinely enjoy dancing. You watch him struggle with his words because it's easier than volunteering an excuse.

You let him babble for a few minutes. He seems flustered, which is endearing. Finally, like the motherfucking hero you are, you swoop in and save him from himself. "Bro, chill. I'm almost done," you mutter, offering him a smirk. He relaxes a little, derpy grin spreading over his expressive face. "And stop drooling," you say as you start sweeping again. "I mean I know you want to take a huge bite out of the hunk of Strider standing before you, but show a little self-control."

Laughing, John runs a hand through his messy hair and rolls his eyes at you. "Oh, yeah, dude, I'm swooning," he says as he pretends to fan himself. "I just can't help myself when I'm around you."

"Very few people can," you reply quickly.

\---

You are John Egbert and you've been sharing an apartment with your best bro since the two of you started college a year ago. You certainly thought you knew everything about him. You mean, gosh, you've known him since the two of you were twelve. And since... well, since your thirteenth birthday, it's not like you have any close friends except Dave and Rose and Jade. You thought you knew everything about him. How does someone even hide something from their best bro in the whole universe for seven years, anyway?!

When you get home, he yawns but instead of going to bed he flops messily across the couch and turns his gaze to the TV, where your game is still paused. In your small shared apartment, there's not much of a distinction between the living room and the kitchenette. You walk over to the fridge, toeing off your shoes as you go (and definitely not tripping, no not once) and grab a couple of Tabs. Dave says he drinks them ironically but you really aren't sure what's so ironic about shitty soda that costs more than the other sodas. You guess that's why he's the coolkid and you're the derp. You look down at the cans in your hand and (as discreetly as possible) you shake one of them. He catches the can you toss at him, then regards you dubiously, twisted awkwardly on the couch. "Not cool, bro."

"What?" you ask innocently, giving him a bright grin. "I am the King of Cool right now. It's me. Don't you trust me?"

He looks down at the can, then up at you. He stands and comes very close.

\---

He's still got that stupid smile. You know he shook the can. He does it at least once a week. You didn't fall for it the first time and you won't fall for it now. You look back down at the can and hold it up.

When you open, it spews in his face.

He's still got that infuriating grin in place, even covered in Tab. "You're getting lazy, dude," you mutter, suppressing a smile. John's smile fades a little. He gives you a strange look. The silence becomes uncomfortable before you take a sip and say, "You need to shower. In a bad way."

"Mmm, wonder whose fault that is," he mutters. He looks distracted as he worries his lower lip.

\---

After getting all the soda out of your hair, you return to the living room in your--

"Matching jammies, Egderp, really?"

You look down and grin at your new Ghostbusters pajamas that do indeed have matching top and bottoms. Suddenly, a realization strikes you. "Oh! I almost forgot--"

"You actually forgot--"

"I got you some, too!"

"John, I swear to God if you got me some Ghostbuster jammies..." he grumbles as you dart to your bedroom.

You emerge holding a bundle of pink. You throw it at him underhand, still grinning.

"Is this..." He holds up the shirt. It's button-up and long sleeved, like yours, but it's got ponies everywhere. "This is My Little Pony."

"My Little Pony: Friendship Is Magic, Dave," you chirp.

\---

You are at a complete loss for almost a full minute. You are stuck between awe and disgust. "You got me My Little Pony jammies."

"Yes, Dave. Now put them on." When you look at him, John's smile could almost blind you. He looks so damn pleased with himself.

"This might be too ironic, bro."

"Dude, do you know how hard it is to find MLP sleepware in mens' sizes? Put them on," he demands.

And, because you can't help but indulge his every whim like a tool, you get off the couch to change. You start tugging your clothes off; a weird noise comes from John's general direction but when you turn he's stepping around you to take a seat on the floor by the couch. He's facing away from you but you could swear he's blushing.

\---

"What, Egbert? Don't tell me you're finally coming to terms with your desire to devour my spam porpoise," comes the chiding voice behind you. Which definitely doesn't embarrass you in the least. Nope. This is your best bro who is a boy and you are not a homosexual so there is no reason for you to be embarrassed.

You are not confused about your feelings about your best friend. You are a heterosexual male and you have never had reason to doubt that and you certainly haven't been given reason to doubt that by some guy--even if that guy is the one person in the universe who knows everything about you, who has stuck by your side through the toughest shit anyone could go through, who puts up with you even though you can be really demanding and derpy and embarrassing--and his _dancing._ No. This is not a thing.

So you do what any other nineteen-year-old heterosexual boy would do in this situation and you un-pause your videogame.

\---

You are John Egbert and you're beginning to think you have a bit of a problem. Thing is--no matter how much you put "no homo" before something--eventually, having less-than-innocent dreams about your best bro is definitely, 100%, absolutely, unironically God Tier homo, okay? They're not even _good_ less-than-innocent dreams but they leave you hard and aching and you _will not_ jack off to your best friend. No sir. You do not jack off to dreams of your best bro pressed up against you on a dance floor, lithe limbs tangling with yours, hot breath fanning against your--

No. That's not the kind of thing that turns you on at all, so why would you masturbate to it?

However, there is the small problem of you having these dreams and waking up...well, wanting. Hard and hot and aching with need. Hands bunched in your sheets. Whimpering. And if you're on your stomach, rutting gently against the sheets.

And all those cold showers aren't exactly helping your mood.

Which is why, you think, Dave dragged you to this gig. In a way, you know it was really very nice of him. After all, you don't exactly fit into this whole club scene, do you? Even in Dave-approved attire. You hover at the edge of the dance floor, leaning against a wall, watching him absently. You're not sure if he's aware of how his hips--really how his whole body moves with the beat. Without much thought, you down the rest of your beer, cringing at the taste. He looks up and catches your eye. You try a smile but it feels unnatural. His brow quirks and his gaze returns to his task.

Dave appears by your side with a beer in one hand and a tall glass with something pink in it in the other. You grab for the beer but he tuts at you and shakes his head. "No, _this_ one's for you," he says, offering the glass.

\---

By this point, it's definitely your fault this is happening. It's not like you don't know how little suited John is to moderation. Especially when it comes to alcohol. He leans heavily against you as you help him stumble out of the club. His head lolls against your shoulder and his breath is hot and wet against your neck. You roll your eyes and help him into the passenger seat of his car. He doesn't let go of your arm, though. He tugs you, making needy little noises until you kneel on the ground next to him. "Sup?"

And then his lips are mashed up against yours in a kiss that is much more teeth than anything else and his legs are clumsily wrapping around you and your shock is overwhelmed by the feeling of John's fingers tangling almost painfully in your hair. There's a sound--like a moan or a gasp or a moaning gasp, whatever that is--when he grinds his groin against yours and you're not entirely sure who it came from or if you care. His movements are eager, desperate, and he pulls you awkwardly on top of him so that the two of you are hanging halfway out of the car, with just his lower back supported by the edge of his seat. Your hips buck and he gives a wanton little moan and--

He's drunk.

He's drunk and you are not.

The realization hits you hard. You rip your lips away from his. "Wait--" you gasp, trying to disentangle yourself from the surprisingly strong boy. "Wait!" you repeat but he lets out a sharp cry, head falling back onto the console as his movements slowly still. It takes you a moment to realize what just happened. Unthinkingly, you push his bangs off of his sweat-slick forehead. He's got these high spots of colour on his cheeks and his lips are swollen and his goober teeth are just sorta there and his eyes are dark and he looks so completely wrecked right now that your own arousal gives an almost painful throb. He tries to slur an apology, wriggling under you as you help push him back into the car. As some semblance of composure returns to him, he looks embarrassed.

Making sure he's all tucked into the seat with nothing sticking out to be slammed in the door, you close him in. He doesn't flinch when the door shuts loudly, he's all lax and putty-like where he sits, eyelids drooping blissfully.

\---

You help him out of the car.

His body is pliant and too-warm. He's giggly but not giddy. Words bubble out of him at random, face pressed against your shoulder. When you stop at your apartment door to get your keys, you let him go briefly and he sways docilely where he stands. You tug him inside while he mumbles a little "thank you, Dave." You hang on to his wrist and steer him around the furniture as you pick your way carefully to his bedroom. His hands fumble at his button and zipper while you look for clothes for him to change into and eventually you just slap them away.

So basically you help him undress.

You make him sit on his bed as you take off his shoes. "I am such a tool," you mutter, looking at your drunk best friend, who is leaning _way_ back on his elbows. He looks at you blearily, showing no sign of having heard you. Shoes and socks off, you grab his hands and say, "Okay, up. Can't get you naked while you're sitting down." He stumbles into you and leans in for a kiss but you catch him before that happens. You figure the morning's gonna be hell as it is when he wakes up.

You yank off his soiled jeans and his boxers and carefully look anywhere but his soft cock as you guide his feet into clean undies and pull them up his legs. He looks down at you quizzically but you say nothing. Straightening, you regard him for a moment before you push him backwards onto his bed. He falls loosely with a gentle "oomph" but doesn't move to right himself or get all the way on the bed. You give him a put-upon sigh and grab his legs to get him all the way onto the bed and his dead weight is surprisingly dense and heavy.

As you start to go, you hear from behind you a whiney, "Don't leave me."

\---

The first time you wake up, it's with a pounding headache. Your face is smashed against _someone's_ flat, lightly muscled chest, your leg thrust between _someone's_ thighs. Unwilling to confront such a reality, you slip back into sleep. When you next awaken, you're lucky enough to be alone. You bury your face into your pillow as memory after mortifying memory of the night before wash over you. Your head pounds and your body feels weirdly loose. You try to sit up but a rush of nausea hits you so you let yourself flop back onto the bed. Faintly, if you strain to hear it, you can hear the murmur of voices--of _one_ voice--in the other room.

"Just... could you wait a goddamn minute?" you hear Dave growl just outside your door. "Yes, I'm a regular fucking nurse. Goodbye, sister-dear. Love you, too."

The door swings open and you feel your face flush with something near shame. In one hand, he's balancing a tray with a mug, a beer, and a bottle of aspirin on it. You feel a rush of something like affection for him. In the other hand, he's clenching his cell like it's a dangerous creature that he's trying to hold at bay. He usually looks like that after talking to Rose. She has that effect on him.

"How you feeling, loverboy?" he asks, a rare smirk playing on his lips.

\---

He blanches at that and you almost regret it. He pushes his face back into his pillow and grumbles something into it that you can't quite catch. "C'mon, man. Dr Strider's here to nurse your sorry ass back to health. Now roll over unless you want the thermometer up your waste deposite tube."

He rolls onto his back, flinging himself childishly across the bed. His cheeks are red and he's not looking at you, but he mumbles, "You've been talking to Karkat again."

"Beer or coffee?" you ask, rolling your eyes. You pocket your phone and grab his glasses off his nightstand. When he doesn't answer and turns his face the wall, you sit on the edge of his bed. "You know... I've heard aspirin works just well as a suppository." That earns a small smile. You don't have to be your know-it-all psyche-major ectosister to know how embarrassed he is. However, because you're not your know-it-all psyche-major ectosister, you have no idea how to handle this. "Egbert, do I have to put on my serious fa--"

His phone starts to ring and it's My Heart Will Go On and you almost snort. You dig in his jeans from the night before for his phone, avoiding the dried mess as well as you can, to fish for his phone and toss it to him before it goes to voicemail. John pinches the bridge of his nose as he answers the phone, croaking a feeble, "Hello?"

After a considerable pause, he sits up, shoulder bumping yours. "I... Rose... stop... No, really... I..." he stammers, blush darkening. "I don't even know what that word..." He trails off and then gasps. "Hetoldyou _what?"_ You feel a hot flush work its way up your neck and you stand before--"Dave Strider, don't you dare leave." Then, to the phone, "Can we talk about this later?" He pauses, apparently trying very hard to concentrate on whatever Rose is saying. You turn and watch him as he slowly lays back down, suddenly feeling simultaneously like a child in trouble and a voyeur. "Yeah, I understand... No, I... Okay." He says it when a sense of reluctant finality. "Bye? Yeah, okay... buh-bye."

The phone gets very close to hitting you in the face before you catch it. "Projectiles aren't nice." You approach cautiously, wary of anything else he could possibly throw at you, and you sit back down on his bed. "So," you start, "Wanna talk about your feelings?"

You definitely deserve it when he knees you in the side.

"Egbuh--John, c'mon, man..."

He finally looks at you. "Last night..." he says. He digs the heels of his hands into his eyes briefly. "Can I have my glasses? I can't even see you."

"Bwah?" You shake your head and hand him his glasses. "You were saying," you prompt as he blinks at you.

"I'm sorry." When you don't answer, he makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat and flips back onto his stomach. "You're my best friend."

"No shit." Sensing this wasn't exactly the right thing to say, you try another tactic. You scoot closer and lay a tentative hand on the center of his back. He twitches but doesn't really protest. "You're my best friend, bro."

\---

His hand is warm against your back and you want to lean into the touch. "There's something wrong, dude," he says.

He's really trying and that's endearing. "No shit." You sit up quickly, displacing his hand. "I, um, need a shower. I'm gross. The grossest..." you say. "It's me."

Lame joke.

You slide off the bed past him and practically bolt for the door. "Thanks for the... the, uh, coffee." You don't look back at him. In fact, you're shaking when you slam the bathroom door behind you. Before you start the water, you hear Dave leave your room. His footsteps stop just on the other side of the door.

"So I guess it's safe to say you don't want to talk about your feelings," you hear before the footsteps continue.

The water is too hot but the pain itself is cleansing. As you run through the events of the night before, your soapy hands lead inevitably downward. Shame colours your cheeks but you realize as you brip the base of your cock that you're already past the point of no return. You bite your right hand to stifle a groan as you, safe in a world of fantasy, jerk yourself roughly. Your hand moves faster, tighter, your hips buck as image after sordid image rises to the forefront of your mind. Needy, pathetic little noises rise in your too-tight throat. Desire pools in the pit of your gut and you cum without preamble, hissing sharply, "Yes! Dave--"

\---

Feeling astonishingly creepy, you wait by the bathroom door. He leaves looking much more relaxed, which you guess is a good thing. When he sees you, he jumps. "Jeez, Dave! What even?" he asks, laughing shakily and looking away from you. He tugs his obnoxious green slime ghost bathrobe around him more tightly, sufficiently making himself look like a prudish old woman in the process. When he tries to push past you, your quick reflexes help you catch him against the wall. "Um, what are you doing?"

"All will be clear in moments," you reply.

And then you kiss him.

When you pull away, he whispers, "Oh," but the look he's giving you is apprehensive.

"What?" you ask cautiously. You're utter lack of cool with this kid astounds you.

"Do you... want this?"

You actually feel your jaw drop. "What kind of batshit insane question is that?" His eyes turn away. He tries to push past you again.

\---

"Dammit, Egbert, would you stop trying to run away from me?" he snaps. You chance a look at him. "I'm your best friend, right?" When you nod, he continues fiercely, "Well, best friends tell each other shit."

Your mouth goes very dry. "I love..." you pause.

"I swear to god if you start singing 'Dammit, Janet,' I'll kill you."

"The way you dance," you finish in a rush.

He huffs a laugh.

"You are the biggest derp," he murmurs.

He kisses you again.

When he pulls away, you hear yourself say, rather pathetically, "No, don't stop." Embarrassment is snuffed out by gentle hands that cup your face. The kiss that follows is long, sweet. He presses against you and you press against the wall. Your arms wrap around his neck as you eagerly deepen the kiss.

\---

Dave rolls off of you with a breathy, "Well, fuck." He's breathing so heavily you can count every rib on each inhale. His shades had long since been discarded--well, tossed across the room--and you're still getting used to seeing those red eyes looking at you so intensely. You push your hair off your sweat-slick forehead and look up to the ceiling. He finds your hand and laces your fingers together. You laugh a little breathlessly.

"Any more big secrets we need to discharge?" he asks after minutes of silence.

You shush him. "No time for laughter. Only sleep now," you mutter, elbowing him.

"It's one in the afternoon," he says pointedly.

"Your logic has no place here," you grumble, rolling to bury your face in his pillow and flopping your arm around his chest. "Sleep."

He cards a hand through your hair and says very lowly, "Can't argue with that."


End file.
